Banshee Dressed in Death
by letherbeseen
Summary: Stiles Stilinski has an unusual vocation: he kills the supernatural. Searching for a girl whom the locals call the Banshee, Stiles expects the usual: track, hunt, kill. Curses are entangled and worlds collide, and this girl is something he has never faced before. She kills everyone who sets foot in the Preserve. And for whatever reason, she spares his life. Stydia AU


**SUMMARY:** _Stiles Stilinski has an unusual vocation: he kills the supernatural. Searching for a girl whom the locals call the Banshee, Stiles expects the usual: track, hunt, kill. Curses are entangled and worlds collide, and this girl is something he has never faced before. She kills everyone who sets foot in the Preserve. And for whatever reason, she spares his life. *Inspired by Anna Dressed in Blood by Kendare Blake*_

 **Prologue**

They call her the Banshee. Banshee Dressed In Death.

She stands over a massacre, bones lying under the earth, waiting to be call upon, the most recent death being at the balls of her bare feet. Her hair glows white and floats as if on a breeze, her eyes black as night. Her lips part and she unleashes another unearthly screech that no one but the dead can hear.

Because she is death itself. It's a warning no one pays attention to, but they do because they are curious. They want to know if the legends are true. That death reeks the earth below their beloved town because of this so-called Banshee.

And they do. They pay the price and witness their untimely death before their eyes, feel her hands shove her way into their flesh and tear them apart into two.

No one has ever lived. Until now.

* * *

 **_oOo_**

* * *

He thinks he's kissed a girl who looked like this one once.

Same parted lips, crooked nose, same dark brown eyes. He thinks he kissed her on her birthday. He listens to her blabber on something non-existence that doesn't exist anymore, her hair sliding up and down twirling on her finger as she continues to listen to whatever music played on the day of her death.

Her name's Emily. Or Erica. He can't remember so he settles on Erica.

He almost feels bad for her as he watches the girl out of the corner of his eye, her face brightening at the mention of her boyfriend, Boyd, and how she can't wait to see him again.

Too bad that never happened. Because that night, Erica got into a car somewhat like this one and never returned. They found her body three years later after a reconstruction of a bank, finding her hidden behind a panel made of concrete, throat slashed, eyes sunken in.

And now she's back somehow. And now she doesn't know that she's stuck here. None of them ever seem to know. Resurrected by something, someone, some other being who obviously wants to make his life a living hell. Because he has to go and clean up the mess.

It's always him. Never anybody else. Because he has the only weapon that can kill the Dead. Sure, there are others that only kill the Living Supernaturals, but his is the only one that can kill the Dead. It isn't pure chance that it landed in his hands; it is something that has been passed down from generation to generation from his mother's side of the family. He never really thought anything about it even when Christopher Argent showed up on his doorstep on his 17th birthday and basically told him, _"Oh, you have a magical weapon! Ask your dad about that! Your duty is to kill all the supernatural now. Happy Birthday!"_

Everyone wants the damn thing and he doesn't even want it, but he keeps it, protects it, because it's a gift from his mother. His one last piece of her he can still hold in his hands. People try their best to kill him over this weapon, and this results in him having to move from town to town, never staying anywhere for more than three months, never fully trusting anyone, killing all the supernatural as he went.

So what is he doing here in New Orleans when he should be in school right now? Picking up one lone Werewolf with a side of his athame to go.

Everyone in the movies always tell him that Supernaturals are nice and kind when you get to know them, but that isn't the case. They're dangerous and they kill everything that stands in their way. Stiles can't help feeling sympathy for them. Once Erica realizes where she's heading, the animalistic side of her will come out, and soon his face will be torn into scraps. She'll Wolf out, rearing her head, fangs and nails sharp as she desperately tries to flee from the place she's died. She'll be as angry and ugly as anyone you've ever seen. But Stiles can't really blame her. She never made it home to see Boyd, and now she doesn't want anyone else to get home either.

With the Dead, you have to kill them where they've died. He has learned this the hard way.

" … He's going to marry me when I get there. I'm so excited. Gah! Do you know what that's like?" Erica squeals with delight for the umpteenth time as she repeats her story. Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes and forces a smile. "Ooh, turn up the music! I love this song!"

The radio isn't even on but he turns the volume dial just for her benefit, gripping the athame in his left hand, preparing himself for attack. The bank is almost in view and he wonders why Erica doesn't sense this.

Suddenly, Erica straightens, looking around wildly. "Where are you taking me?" she asks fearfully. Stiles doesn't answer and continues to drive.

"Turn around," she pleads. "Turn around. We're going the wrong way."

Tears erupt and soon Erica is sobbing, momentarily forgetting the fact she is a Werewolf. Stiles realizes this must've actually happened during the actual day leading to her doom, and hates it, that he's bringing her to such an horrific memory. But he needs to, so he can send her home, to be with her boyfriend, Boyd, who has died six years ago.

"Turn around!" Erica screams, pounding and jiggling on the door handle, writhing in her seat, yanking her seatbelt off in the process. "Let me go home! I won't tell anyone! I swear! Please!"

Stiles closes his eyes briefly, sucking in a sharp breath. "I can't. I have to do this."

Her eyes meet his as the car finally shudders to a stop. If it wasn't for the smell of death reeking from her and the fact her hair was mattered with her blood and dirt, he can almost believe she's normal, a Human. It's amazing that no one has spotted this yet.

A low growl rips from her throat as she finally sees the bank. "I won't let you. I need to go home to Boyd."

"Boyd's dead," he replies, gripping the athame tighter, inching it out slowly from underneath his leg. "He died six years ago after you."

The Werewolf shakes her head vigorously, in denial, her eyes beginning to glow golden. "He's not dead," she spits through a mouthful of fangs. He darts to her fingers, seeing dark claws sprout out. "You're going to let me out of here and maybe, _just maybe_ , I won't tear your face off."

"Sorry, E," he says, pulling out the athame, the silver blade glinting from the moonlight.

She roars in his face, swiping her hand at him as soon as the realization of who he is enters her mind. Spit dribbles and flies onto his face, and he sticks out the athame, jabbing it into her shoulder. She screams in pain, then thrusts her elbow back with her strength, shattering the window. Stiles covers his face for protection and scrambles to rip his seatbelt off, chasing after her as he sees Erica darting into the night, sprinting away in the opposite direction of the bank.

Stiles chastises himself, swearing loudly as he searches for Erica. Damn Werewolves and their enhanced abilities. Sometimes with all the creatures bumping through the night, he wishes that he did have powers. He's on guard, walking slowly, peering up at the rooftops, into dark alleys. Erica could be lurking behind him right now and he possibly would've not known it. The hair of his arm begins to prickle up and he whirls and slices through the air. A cry of pain shoots out from the Werewolf before she disappears again. Blood splatters the sidewalk underneath his shoes.

 _Don't be an idiot. Don't turn your back on an dark alley._

But he does so quickly with a glance thrown behind him, to make sure she's not sneaking up on him and clawed hands reach for him from the shadows, pulling him backwards. He's tossed to the ground like a rag doll and the athame clatters out of his grasp.

 _Don't lose it don't lose it,_ he thinks desperately, scrambling to his feet.

Stiles gets knocked down again and before he can even get a breath in, he's being slammed back harshly against the brick wall behind him and is being lifted up with Erica's hand around his throat. Her strange golden eyes bare into his, her head cocking curiously as she studies him.

"You're hot and all," she grins. "But you tried to kill me. And you know what you're doing right now that's kind of funny? You're only looking into my eyes."

Stiles bites back a laugh, which is hard to do when her claws are pressing against his throat. "That's . . . funny?"

"Well, yeah," she continues. She steps closer, a hand pressing his other shoulder back. His eyes frantically dart to the athame lying on the ground and back. "Because it's that kind of look where you're trying not to look at my eyes, but you want to, do you? A part of you does. A part of you wishes you could feel what it's like to be one of us. Werewolf. Supernatural. It doesn't matter."

"Not really," he chokes out. "No."

She growls again, the sound sending chills down his spine. "Do you know how much misery you've caused us with that damn knife of yours?"

Stiles watches Erica's eyes become unfocused and he takes that chance to head-butt her as hard as he can, forcing the Werewolf to let him go. He drops to the ground, wheezing and scrambles for the knife. Once, it's in his hand, he rolls into his back to see Erica lunging for him, and as usual, he doesn't think, he just does.

The blade sinks into Erica's chest, entering her heart. Her face sinks back into the girl she used to be, a surprised look on her face. He pushes her body off of him, rolling the girl into her back. She's still alive for now, but only paralyzed. She can see, hear, sense everything around her and now, she can't do anything about it.

A muffled sound escapes her lips and Stiles cautiously bends down to hear what she's trying to say.

"I don't want to do this again," the young Werewolf whispers. "I just wanna go home."

"This is the last time," he promises. With some difficulty, Stiles hoists the dead girl by his side, half-carrying, half-dragging her toward the bank. He's already received an extra key to let them both in, even though he doesn't need it when the bank has been abandoned since Erica's death and several break-ins.

The whole town has been abandoned since 2000.

Inside, it's dusty, spiderwebs and dank air filling their lungs as they walk in. Cracks line into the marble wall.m Erica whimpers and a tear slides down her cheek, a strange noise erupting from her lips. Desks and papers are strewn everywhere and the vault lies cracked open partially.

"There?" he asks aloud, because he wants to make sure he's not making a mistake.

"Yes," she breathes out.

As he nears closer to the vault, he can make out a strange marking etched or emboldened into the metal. He doesn't know what it is or what it means but he takes note of it. One step closer to finding her killer.

He gently sets her down and she groans weakly. He just has to ask one question before he can send her back to the place whence she came. Bending down, he grips the handle of the athame before pulling it out. A grunt rolls past her tongue and she tries to rise, but her strength has weakened and she can only pant heavily.

"Do you know?" He questions her, watching as she slowly begins to deteriorate, chest rising and falling quickly. Do you know who killed you?

Her dull lifeless eyes meet his as she struggles to speak. "I … Boyd …" Erica wheezes, black fluid dripping from her nostrils. "Kali," she gargles. "Her name … Kali. She … Killed me. Kill mekillmekill –"

That's all Stiles needs. He whispers an apology before he strikes, tilting her head back, drawing the blade across her throat, opening a yawning black line. Erica's fingers come up to her neck. They try to press the skin back together and her eyes widen with fear. The girl doesn't scream as she shrivels, but maybe she can't: her throat was cut and the black fluid has worked its way into her mouth. In less than a minute she's gone, leaving not a trace behind.

The bank holds no evidence of another death, no footprints left behind in the dust when Stiles strolls out, heading back to his car. He knows he's going to have to get it fixed. Thank God it's just a rental and not Roscoe, his beloved Jeep. In a few weeks, he'll get the Jeep back.

And in a few weeks, he'll go to the place where the locals say the smell of the dead reap their town.

Beacon Hills.

And there, he'll meet the one everyone calls the Banshee.


End file.
